Desert Days
by Here Strikes Dawn
Summary: Ishval. The land of the desert, the land of despair. Roy Mustang would never forget the sight of blood in the sand.
1. Day 0

Desert Days

Day 0

 _So you've already reached your limit, have you?_

 _You have been here for a day, for a year, for a lifetime._

 _Time ceases to exist amongst the dunes and sand._

 _You are sick of the sight of the desert lapping greedily at the blood, aren't you?_

 _You've reached your limit, and yet do you still want to bring about change?_

 _Will you make things right again?_

 _Can you make them right?_

* * *

Roy found out that he was being deployed while reading the morning newspaper with his coffee. It was 9am, and he had already had three of the damn things. Black with no sugar. He drank the bitter beverage for its caffeine.

And he wasn't quite sure how he would have survived without it.

Roy Mustang, Major of the Amestrian military, Flame Alchemist, as the Fuhrer had decreed on the certification document that he had received alongside that silver pocket watch, was a caffeine addict. He was twenty-three and he was a caffeine addict.

Mustang was a State Alchemist, caffeine addict, and according to the article on the front cover of this newspaper he had been skimming, he was being deployed to Ishval.

He had not received the orders officially yet. But the situation in the East Area had remained in a critical state for a long time. Roy had been working his ass off in East City for the whole of his short-lived military career. He knew the facts and the dire situation of the Ishvalan Civil War. He knew that rural villages had been destroyed through the fighting, and subscription had torn simple farmers away from their homes and their families. The rest of Amestris continued to live as normal; they assumed this war that had killed hundreds (Roy didn't like to think of thousands, but that was likely the case) was but a 'little border skirmish'.

However, from his rich experience in the military, a 'little border skirmish' wouldn't include hundreds of troops being deployed from the remotest regions in the East Area. A 'little border skirmish' did not enable young boys to earn coin by being wagon carriers of the dead. Those young boys were called Crows by military officials – they had become so common.

And now Bradley was becoming desperate. He didn't give a damn about the state of the country or its people. What he cared about was its reputation. If the enemies that lurked on nearly every border of Amestris discovered how Amestris had failed miserably in the annex of a tiny nation of desert people, they would be invading before Roy could say "caffeine".

Roy sipped at his coffee, inhaling the bittersweet vapours and swallowing the burning liquid without a moment's hesitation. Damn this was a good brew.

Yawning lazily, Roy stretched like a cat, lifting his hands into the air and quickly drained the rest of his coffee. He was due to start work at 9am and the time was already 09:08 according to his watch. He really did have the habit of slacking off. He attempted to subdue another yawn but let his mouth open cavernously wide anyway. Until he entered the office, he wasn't officially on duty or that it what he told himself.

Damn it, Roy, wake up, he scolded himself furiously, you're not an early bird, but in order to climb the ladder, you've got to make an impression.

At that moment, one of the doors to the cafeteria opened and an unfamiliar soldier approached him. A brief inspection of her uniform informed Roy that she was a corporal from Central. She had a brown envelope clutched close to her chest as though it was a valuable treasure. She moved with a purpose in his direction.

Roy knew he was about to receive his deployment about going to Ishval. His temples had started to ache, and he tried to rub away the tension away. It was probably the caffeine. Or the damn nerves. Were his hands shaking? Since when had they become slick with sweat? No, it couldn't be nerves…it had to be the caffeine.

He was the Flame Alchemist and he wasn't afraid of a piece of paper that held the fate of life in its inky contents.

"Major Mustang, Sir!" the woman saluted, "here are official orders sent from General Grand through the Fuhrer."

She handed him the envelope, and he took them with dropping the thing. If she had noticed his nerves, she did not comment. She clicked her boots together and left the cafeteria the way she had come. Roy hadn't noticed that the room had become silent through this brief encounter.

He glanced around the room, and all of the inquisitive faces that had been staring at him quickly turned their gazes away. The soldiers and officers in the cafeteria came from different backgrounds with different ranks and different lives to each other. But they were eastern troops, and they knew by now what the delivering of a brown meant.

Someone was being deployed. There was no escape, unless an individual suffered with sickness, injury or an inability to respond on the battlefield, the only way home was through the Crows. Roy's body stiffened as he remembered a particularly hot day last summer. A Crow had taken ill and had left his wagon down a side alley in the baking sun. Roy had strayed down the wrong path eating his cheese sandwich on the way back to HQ during a lunch break when he had seen the body bags piling up like carrion. And he couldn't describe the sensation of when the smell of decaying flesh first hit his nostrils.

He hadn't been able to swallow cheese since, and that had nearly been a year ago.

Shakily, Roy made his way to the bathroom. He opened the contents of the letter. Words jumbled and danced on the page, including "Order 3066", "State Alchemist" and "sincerest gratitude from the peoples of Amestris".

He couldn't look at it any longer.

The Amestrian dragon stared at him with its beady black eye printed on the paper. Roy felt like he was being watched from every corner of the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror but he saw nothing. It was like he wasn't there, as if he was a ghost already.

The time on his watch read 09:23 as Roy Mustang staggered into a cubicle, emptying his stomach contents as he had during that stifling hot day in summer last year and he retrieved the ignition gloves from his pocket and he simmered the letter until there was nothing left and he turned around to resume his day like usual.

* * *

 _Here is the first part of Desert Days. This story can be read independently but it is a side story to Look Before You Listen._

 _I'll be updating this with ~1K per chapter every two days. I hope you enjoy!_

 _Edit: Apologies for the re-upload. The original seemed to omit every break and italic writing._


	2. Day 1

Day 1

Roy had slept surprisingly well the night before. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he knew he wouldn't be receiving a full night's sleep in a _long time_ that convinced his weary body to surrender to the bliss of dreams.

Would he ever be able to dream again? Or would he be trapped in a permanent nightmare? Would he forget the feeling of being warm under the covers, shielded from the horrors of the world?

This was his last morning in his small but comfortable lodgings in the dorms. The three rooms that created his living quarters included chairs and tables and beds shoved into every corner in an attempt to create more space. Despite his best efforts at being organised, there was rarely ever enough space. And he didn't have a bath in his dorm room either. He wasn't a low-ranking officer and therefore had gained the luxuries of having an en suite from his first day staying in the dorms.

The other soldiers had become fatigued about hearing him complaining about the facilities the military had provided him with. He had made an income over the past three years and could afford a quaint apartment on the outskirts of East City. But he rarely had the time, and such an ordeal was too great an effort for a young man in his twenties to waste his life doing. Retired folk fretted about their houses.

Roy had grown attached to his dorm though. He wouldn't have changed the time he spent here for the world (but he would have really liked to have a bath…). His alarm blared on his bedside table (he was shocked at having woken up before his alarm sounded this morning) and he didn't hesitate: he jumped straight out of bed. The kitchen, or more importantly, the _caffeine,_ was summoning him.

Several minutes later, he was breathing in the delicious aroma of his first coffee. The swirling vapours…the bitter taste…the art of preparing a coffee…he would miss these things terribly. Everybody knew the pathetic excuse of a coffee on the battleground was a cup with granules and sugar inside of it.

Part of the excitement of having made his first coffee of the day drained Roy for a moment. He found himself slumping in his chair and he turned his attention to the world outside. The sun was bright and the birds were singing. The markets would be humming with activity already; children would be squealing holding their parent's hands as they were walked to school; the newspaper boy would be completing his rounds.

Life was carrying on as normal. And tomorrow that normal routine would be without him.

His thoughts drifted to Riza and her large, empty house. Would she be watching the hive of activity of East City as he was? He hoped not. He wanted her to live her life to the best of her abilities. He owed her everything, and quite literally. She deserved peace of mind after the countless years of torment and trials worrying about her father, about Roy, about everyone except for herself.

Roy would treasure to see one of her rare smiles one last time.

"Damn rain," he muttered, and he lifted up the empty mug of coffee and trudged barefoot into the bathroom in order to make himself look (and feel) a little more human.

* * *

Roy had been able to pack his belongings into two suitcases. They contained the bare essentials that he would need on his deployment to Ishval and that included bottles of sun cream. He had had to survive on the bare minimum when he had been living with the Hawkeyes. Berthold Hawkeye could earn a modest living with the work that he had carried out, although he preferred the privacy and secrecy that the majority of alchemists were drawn to. However, the money that he had earnt was not substantial to take care of a large house and feed three people plentifully. They had muddled through the winter when work was scarce.

Roy didn't want to witness people enduring the same challenging times that he had. It had been one of his motivating factors for joining the military.

That was why he had to do this…he had to he had to…he. Had. To.

He grabbed hold of his luggage. He had to leave now if he was going to make it to the train that would send him to one of the remote villages further south, and then the troops were being deployed straight to the barren deserts of Ishval.

It would take less than two days to reach the Holy Land of the Ishvalan people. And then there would be no return. No escape.

Roy looked around the quiet dorm room that was already desolate. His items were here, that was true. But the place already had the life and vigour visibly draining from it; the shadows in the corners seemed to lurk that bit closer to Roy and it was as though light had vanished. His dorm room had been his home and now it would become a blank building until he returned.

If he returned…

 _Don't think about it._

He had to leave now. He had to sever all ties of affection and humility if he was ever going to survive. Roy had surrendered on the prospects of coming out of this ordeal _thriving,_ so he was placing his bets on whether he could _survive_ or not. And that was due to luck and stubbornness in equal proportions. Probably more luck…

This could have been the end to his "normal". Staying awake deep into the middle of the night (and watching the sun rise) to get that essay completed and submitted to his superiors minutes before the deadline. Standing in the middle of the military corridor outside of his office staring into space waiting for the blessed caffeine to work its miracles. Dreaming about the future…

 _What future could you have?_

 _Don't think about it._

He couldn't wait another second. If he didn't leave now, he wouldn't ever have been able to go. Roy closed the door behind him, listening to the distinctive _click_ as he locked the door while closing his eyes. With long strides he turned and left his world behind him.

At that moment, Roy Mustang died and the unfeeling, soul-seeking, murdering firing machine, heartless stabber-monster-foul-hellish-abomination called the Flame Alchemist was born from the ashes.

Hell awaited.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! Next part will be up on the 26th ^^_


	3. Day 2

Day 2

How could country folk cope without _modern transport?_

Roy's lower back was aching; he had already become an elderly man, or a city boy mollycoddled into the urban lifestyle. The first train from East City had been what Roy had expected from a train: passenger seats, an efficient engine and cooler as well as windows that could be opened on that stuffy ride.

The second train had been much more…rustic. The carriages themselves were nearly a century old when the railway had first been introduced to Amestris. And the windows had not opened. Roy had tugged at the handle with his meagre strength. He may have broken the handle, but he had wandered away before anyone had thought to check. The train conductor would find a very enormous tip in his pocket once they reached a village called Resembool. A large enough tip that would have been able to pay for a particular door handle…

Roy's meandering thoughts were brought back to their correct course as the wheels of the wagon he was in jerked due to a hole in the country path. Military personnel were usually crammed into these wagons, with up to a dozen being driven along by a single horse. However, the privilege of being a State Alchemist had awarded him with a personal cart.

It rattled noisily along the path that would lead him deeper into the heart of the East Area and into the heart of the fighting. However, from what Roy had witnessed on his journey already, he wondered how the rest of Amestris were ignorant to what state the fighting had escalated to.

Resembool itself was a desert. Trees had been rooted from the ground, and the earth was caked in mud; the village had become a mound of chocolate sponge cake. But instead of a creamy filling, death and decay had taken its place. The market square had been deserted. Farmers who worked in the fields, which should have been bountiful for the upcoming harvest, were barren. The barley stalks which should have been lazily blowing in the breeze were not present.

The peaceful little village had become a warzone. And he hadn't arrived in the real desert yet.

A small part of Roy's mind chastised himself:

 _Why did you stay snug and safe in East City?_

 _Why didn't you step in to help earlier?_

 _Why do you have to be so_ useless?

He clasped his hands together and scratched lightly at his gloves (the sets of ignition gloves were safely positioned in his suitcase: he would not risk damaging them now). It had become an annoying habit he had adopted while staring bored out of the window on the train at the countryside.

The wagon was not much better at relieving his distraction. While the wagon driver had been amiable and conversational towards the start, as the hours trekked on, he had lapsed into a comfortable silence taking Roy to his (final) destination. Roy knew that he needed the distraction. It was a need as real as drinking and eating. He could _feel_ anxiety and frustration and anger crawling beneath his skin, but his exterior remained numb.

It was as though his body was trying his best to block out the horrific stimuli of his surroundings. His body was trying to find coping mechanisms for a battle that had yet to start.

Or had it started a long time ago?

Roy had no answer. The blood-red sky swirled with vicious colours highlighting the blood and destruction that was a heartbeat away. He scratched at his gloves and he would complete the journey with his skin raw and new cells wouldn't grow back until months after Ishval because that _damn annoying habit_ became more and more frequent and no skin would remain at the base of his thumbs.

* * *

"Sir, we have arrived!"

"Ngg, five more minutes. Come on, Riza, you know I was up late doing some important research last night…"

"Sir?" the voice asked concerned again. Roy felt his shoulder being shaken gently and he buried his head deeper into his neck, feeling the warm air gush down his chest as he exhaled. Riza would go away and make him a coffee if he just kept _very still._ This trick had worked dozens of times.

He lifted his head and opened his eyes very slightly. The world was a puddle of colours – twilight-indigo-violet-deep-hazy-blue – and he couldn't discern any distinct figure in the darkness. There was a massive silver light above him, which he assumed was either a giant lightbulb or the moon.

"Mmmm…" Roy closed his eyes again and found himself entering a rather fantastic dream where the coffee didn't have to be made and it came running up to him…Why did the coffee carry guns?

"Sir!" the voice said for a third time, jolting Roy awake. But it wasn't the voice that had summoned Roy from his slumber. He had heard gunfire. He would recognise that sound anywhere. At first when the trigger was pulled, there was a quiet whispering whiz as the bullet darted forwards, like a shadow sneaking away from the light. And then one could hear the crackling as the bullet hit its target, snapping like fireworks, except the element of fantasy was replaced with an element of finality.

Especially when the snipers fired at their targets.

"Ouch," Roy mumbled as he struggled to his feet and successfully tripped over his suitcase and stumbled out of the wagon onto the dirt floor.

"I'm sorry to have woken you, Sir. I would 'ave let you sleep in, but duty calls!" the young man smiled happily. He rubbed a hand first through his dirty blond hair and then his blue eyes.

"That is fine…what is your name?" Roy questioned, looking up at the taller man. He must have been a couple of years younger than him, the Major expected.

"Jean Havoc, nice to have met ya! Maybe I'll see you around sometime, Boss," the man smirked and hopped agilely back into his wagon. The horse, fully fed and watered, hoofed at the ground impatiently, expressing its desire to get as far away from this place as possible.

"I am not your 'boss' – Roy is fine," he replied.

"You're clearly bossy from the way you're standin'," Jean Havoc said and without another word he clicked and the horse began to trudge back the way it had come, leaving Roy in the presence of gunfire and smoke and stars.

The pit in Roy's stomach churned.

He could hardly see anything in the dark.

But the morning would reveal all.


	4. Day 3

Day 3

 _BANG._

Roy's stomach lurched with a start. He rose from his light slumber, dazed and disorientated, the world a muddle of colours around him as his eyes adjusted to the piercing light of dawn that shone through his tent.

He could barely recall what had happened last night. He had stumbled into camp and slurred like a drunk through the documents that he had brought, confirming his identity and deployment to Ishval. He was given directions to the plot of land where his tent had been set up (one of the few perks of his being a State Alchemist was that he possessed his own living quarters). And he had changed into his pyjamas; he had fallen asleep even before his head had hit the item called a pillow.

 _BANG._

The sound of gunfire had catapulted through the air the night before, although today were the sounds of rifles ending Ishvalan lives one by one. But that wasn't the cause of this ear-splitting sound, which appeared to make even the ground tremble in fear at this man-made abomination. Perhaps it was Ishvala, the God of the Ishvalan people, crying out in agony as their land and people were destroyed like cattle.

Roy rose to a sitting up position, and his heart thrummed loudly in his head, blood rushing to his brain making it feel as though somebody was punching his skull with the iron fists that Brigadier General Basque Grand possessed. He moved at a sluggish pace, throwing open the neatly-packed suitcase to find fresh new uniform that had been prepped by the Amestrian military for its soldiers and officers to wear on the front line.

If Roy's brain had been a little more functional he would have made a sarcastic comment about how well the military's budget had been expended.

 _BANG. BANG. BANG._

Was somebody waging a tiny war in his head and the tension headache that he now possessed was caused by the bullets ricocheting off his skull?

He thought so.

Within a minute he had muddled his way into putting his uniform on, and ensuring that his ignition gloves were snug tightly on his hands, he brushed aside the tent flap that was his only shield from the outside world.

The infamous Roy Mustang, who at the age of twenty-three had made a small name for himself in East City, State Alchemist, the one that the people referred to as Flame, stepped forth from his tent with bed hair and a sour expression on his face.

Damn why couldn't he be a morning person, already?

"Sir!" a voice next to him squeaked.

Roy stared down in surprise to a figure saluting him just inches from his face. This woman was small and clearly very young. He didn't recognise her. The insignia on her uniform informed the Major that she was a corporal.

"Yes?" he managed to mumble, but whether his response was decipherable or not was a different matter entirely.

"I was just about to wake you, Sir. You h-have been summoned…summoned by General Grand, Sir!" she stuttered, saluting him an unquestionable number of times before she was abruptly interrupted by Roy and he promptly followed her directions to where Grand would be waiting for him.

As Roy briskly jogged along the well-worn desert path, he could see the size of the Amestrian hive that had been harvested throughout the course of this war. Tents rippled across the dunes in either direction, with people scurrying this way and that. Some carried supplies, some carried weapons, but all carried sombre, heavy expressions on their faces, as though their very existence was arduous. None of them seemed phased by the roaring gunfire that fed fear to Mustang's soul. They appeared to be migrating like summer birds in one direction towards the sound of the gunfire, which was where Roy was heading.

The eastern horizon was stained red. Piercing crimson rays of the fiery Sun shot out in every direction, as though the Sun was an archer and its rays were arrows being fired from a celestial bow. The sight would have been beautiful if Roy had not shivered and thought about the blood that would not only paint the sand, but would paint the sky too. No place could escape the misery and bloodshed that had occurred in this dreadful place.

Roy's heart thudded and it was not from the sudden exercise. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, which was his fuel in the absence of caffeine. He would soon…be a part of this war.

He had journeyed this far to Ishval knowing what he must do, but now the enormity of the task at hand stretched out before him like a yawning chasm. He shook his head as he ran (since when had he been running?) – He should not have considered this war to be a _task._

He was here to commit murder.

He could discern a group of figures in the distance, as hazy as a mirage, in matching uniform that rippled under the heat of the Sun, which would only intensify as the day proceeded onwards. He allowed the adrenaline and his moving legs to take him to the platoon that the Iron Blood Alchemist, Basque Grand had assembled.

"I apologise for my tardiness, Sir," Roy panted, resisting the temptation to collapse and pant on his hands and knees. Blood pulsed at his throat and his forehead was lacquered with sweat.

Grand played with his moustache for a second before his hands returned to their positon behind his back, "Flame, it is good to see you here. I take it you understand what we will have you do."

Mustang could not avert the gaze of his superior officer beckoning over him, as though he expected the man to perform a miracle and end this war before anything had happened. And they would go home to their families and comfortable dorm rooms and coffee makers and it would have all been a bad dream.

That wasn't the way that life worked however.

"This village needs…disposing of," Grand whispered. And as the general moved to the side, Major Mustang was offered a view of the prosperous valley in which houses were filled to the brim. The village had to be twice the size of the Amestrian camp.

Roy didn't look back. He didn't waste any time. This is what he had come here to do.

It was time to get his hands dirty.


	5. Day 10

Day 10

He knew he was dreaming. He had spent the majority of his time doing that recently. Dreaming. His waking hours had become a mindless haze and each night his body happily slipped into that deep, dark in-between place, a place between reality and fantasy. He liked it here because he could create a world with the blink of an eye. He was omnipotent in this place. With a thought he summoned a freshly brewed coffee in his hand and its piping hot mug pressed sharply into his skin like cat claws. He sipped it contently. He liked it here because he could forget. Forget everything.

Already the days were melting into a blur of horrific images that would send shivers down his spine at the mere thought. He went to sleep every night and every time he woke up he thought it couldn't get any worse, go on throw the worst you have got at me I am a monster a monster monster-

He wanted to close his eyes and forget it all. Why did he have to look at those hollow, empty eyes in his reflection? He was twenty-three, for fuck's sake.

But how old were those children who had been shot through the gut countless times over?

What made matters worse was that ever since the State Alchemists had arrived, the tides of the war had turned. In comparison to the seven years before, soldiers now claimed that the fighting had become easy. Soldiers were wasting ammunition on gunning children to the ground because they could and that's what war did to you it made you something evil I am a sinner a sinner sinner-

So, was it easy to slaughter mothers who held their crying babies close to their chests, trying to keep their children shielded and protected until the last second? War would find them too. Nobody was spared- this was massacre.

Dream Roy gagged and spluttered at the make believe coffee. He wouldn't get peace. Not for five minutes. Not for a day. Not for the rest of his life.

He had to wake up. And so he pounded with his fists against his skull attempting to abate the nightmares. His knuckles were calloused and he quickly gave himself a headache. If he didn't stop soon, he would definitely give himself a concussion.

When suddenly, his eyes shot open. His head was still thumping, and he stared at his feet. He wasn't in his bed. Roy was curled on the floor with his knees tucked close to his chin, and his hands were curled around his head, literally trying to protect him from the torrent of thoughts that refused to let him be. Roy had never moved in his sleep before. Before.

Before was ten days ago. Ten fucking days.

He had always been a heavy sleeper. He could have a cup of coffee and then he would fall asleep for sixteen hours without a second thought. There could be a storm blasting through the sky while raindrops pierced the ground like gunfire. If he fell asleep at the Academy, people could have been chatting and shouting around him. He would not have stirred.

That did not scare him.

But he was scared. Roy was an adult. He had chosen to walk this path and he had promised himself there was no turning back. He could not surrender and abandon the other soldiers. Civilians had to be protected. And in order to achieve that, he had to keep fighting.

It sounded so fucking simple. If only life could have been like that, sometimes.

Roy only noticed then that there was a steady stream of tears falling down his face. Falling like fireworks that had been doused by the rain.

He clenched his hands and used shifted so his weight was spread between his fists and knees. He panted and stifled the choking sobs that wracked his frame. With each in breath, he could feel his ribs constrict. His insides felt like they were twisting and breaking apart. His soul was breaking.

Ten days. Eternity.

Hell.

Roy would leave his tent in four hours and not speak a word.

However, he heard footsteps shifting outside of his tent. Roy's flint eyes flickered in the direction of where the noise had come from. He quickly rubbed his eyes and even though his skin was red and raw the distraction made him feel better. There was something else that he could put his mind to. The nightmares would return to their box for another five minutes.

Heaven.

There was a shuffle again. The Major rose to his feet and rubbed a tired hand through his hair, clutching at the roots. Shuffle. And again. Now Roy was just damn pissed off.

What was someone doing outside at this ridiculous hour in the night?A part of his mind scolded the stranger. This part of his mind was the heavy-sleeper Roy, the Roy without a serious care in the world.

They are you, the other part of his mind whispered flatly. Roy's eyebrows narrowed and he stealthily reached for his ignition gloves and waited in anticipation before opening the hatch to his tent.

They are you, a survivor. A fighter, but his mind refused to say any more after Roy's silent mental probing for a few moments more.

Roy felt pressure through the thin material. Someone was holding onto the other side of the tent!

He swallowed the trepidation clogging up in his throat (his heart felt like it was pounding there too) and the Major used his teeth to pull on a glove and then open the tent entrance-

Roy gasped as a figure revealed themselves in the moonlight. The woman in front of him shone silver under the desert full moon. A sea of stars rippled like dust particles that had been shed from the moon. The sky would have been glorious if he wasn't in the middle of a battlefield.

A young Ishvalan woman held a gun shakily at his face. She held a rag in her other hand, and she was sobbing.

"Y-you…" she stuttered, and Roy remembered her. Her face flashed before his mind's eye. And he remembered hearing a baby cry. So she was one those Ishvalan mothers-

She was standing over him, while Roy remained crouched close to the ground. They stared at each other for a long while, not moving, only breathing and blinking. Hands shook. Tears fell.

She had come for her revenge. It was justified and deserved. It was Equivalent Exchange. She had had her heart ripped to pieces by the Amestrians, and she would have revenge with a baby-killer's blood. But in that moment, Roy really didn't want to die. He didn't close his eyes. He didn't avert his gaze. He wouldn't surrender.

He bit his lip and felt the familiar metallic taste of blood drip onto his tongue.

Suddenly, a weapon whistled through the air from the shadows and pierced through the gun. The weapon was some kind of knife. It impaled the desert ground.

"Sorry, I'm late for my guard duty, Major Roy Mustang," a voice said, emerging from the shadows. His hazel eyes glinted from the moon's reflection that landed on his glasses.

The Ishvalan mother glanced between the two Amestrian soldiers and collapsed to her knees. Roy had the feeling that there would be no further heartbreak tonight.


	6. Day 34

Day 34

That woman had been the start of the final Ishvalan rebellion in order to reclaim their decimated Holy Land.

The slacking solider who had been assigned to guard him had become one of Roy's only firm allies out here in this desert wasteland. His name was Maes Hughes and he was infuriating and intelligent. He made himself known to the Amestrian unit in subtle ways that people could not forget. Roy knew the man would rise through the ranks even though he had no background and was not an alchemist. The man was determined, he had to give him that.

Not that he would tell Hughes in person. Especially when he was being a pain in the ass like he was now.

"So the officers said I couldn't send another letter for another two weeks! I don't know what I'm going to do if my sweet Gracia is waiting for the words of wisdom from her dashing Maesey-"

The man sighed and slumped on his stool, his elbows resting on his knees before he dramatically wiped away fake tears from his face.

"Hughes, I don't need and don't want to know the woes of your love life," Roy drawled, as he worked on cleaning the gun he had attached to his belt but never used. It seemed such a waste. Still, out here he couldn't know what would happen (especially if he was stabbed in the gut and left to rot or burnt to a cinder by his own wretched flames).

He shook his head slowly. He was acutely aware of his sharp inhaled breaths. And the sweat lining his filthy uniform. And the way the gun was shaking in his hand-

"You should send a letter too, Roy. Let them know how you're doing," Maes said sympathetically, reaching out to touch Roy on the shoulder but relaxing his hand before it could make contact. It flopped uselessly to his side.

Maes was also an empathetic man who had a radar stuck to his head that could hone in on any and every negative emotion that Roy was harbouring. He would then activate 'mother hen' mode until Roy would feel better. Every time.

And today was no exception. It was pathetic really- he had come to rely on this solider he had known for 20 days? Time escaped reality's clutches here. He had no idea what month it was anymore.

Roy hated the thought of being hopeless. In terms of tactical ability, he was a prized soldier, even in term of the state alchemists. The ability to wield flame alchemy and cause devastation (with a snap of your fingers and boom the world was dead) was wildly sought after in the heart of a mass genocide-

Genocide.

Blood. Death. Entrails. Carcass. War.

Those words hardly caused him to react anymore. Roy would sometimes shake some of the horrendous nausea he felt in his gut by crying. Or by having an overwhelming surge of panic that faded as quickly as it rose.

And the rest of the time it left him feeling so damn numb.

He was the prized soldier who could go on killing while being devoid of any lingering humanity.

"I just-" Roy began but he was abruptly stopped when he heard the distinct _crunch_ of footsteps in the desert stand alerting him to the imminent approach of a person.

Instinct took over and Roy lifted his fingers and poised to snap. His mind quickly eliminated the people it could not be. The soldiers of lower rank did not disturb the Major; this spot had become _his,_ and Hughes had adopted this space of barren land with him too. It was where he didn't have to be under the full scrutiny of the other Amestrian troops and prepare himself for the next wave of the fight. Mostly it involved him staring into space listening to Hughes' wittering and wondering if he should pray to the Ishvalan God, considering that his own one had deserted him.

So it couldn't be the soldiers. His superiors did not know this spot existed. Roy responded to the alarm bell and was there on time when his break ended. They had no reason to pry into where he went during the brief respite he could get between burning corpses.

He would learn about their presence, however.

"This is where the Hero of Ishval hides," the stranger muttered, kicking a stone with each stride they took.

"Don't call me that," Roy snarled, letting the adrenaline take control of him. They had started calling him that when he had decimated several hundred Ishvalans hiding in one of their remaining temples (Mustang had seen them cowering and heard them begging for mercy. They knew they were going to die but they wanted to atone for their sins to enter a paradise in the afterlife. And yet he had still burnt them to ash. He was the military's lap pet, a thing that killed, as mindless as bacteria).

Why did they praise a monster for being a hero? He hated it.

"Humble are we? Not that you have to be. You can have any privilege you _want_ ," the stranger licked their lips and surveyed the surroundings with a bored disinterest.

"I don't recognise you. Have you arrived with the new recruits?" Hughes deftly changed the subject and Mustang wordlessly thanked the deity that had brought this man back to him after the years at the academy.

"Oh no," they said as though the answer was obvious. "They are not due to arrive for another week. I've been asked to come early and I feel ready to share my expertise with you all. All in the name of my Fuhrer and country."

The figure sat down and Roy could finally see who this arrogant and confident person was. He had long black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, eyes that were the colour of a polluted river, and tattoos etched onto his palms. The arrays were intricate and complex, but undeniably transmutation circles.

Before Roy could reply, the man stared at him in the eye and smiled, "I'll try not to dethrone you, King. But the Crimson Alchemist has work to do."


End file.
